The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “What happened here?”

  “The outbreak of World War One. Tensions ran high and everyone who had ties to the Central Powers were suspected sympathizers.” He shook his head sadly. “Not only were these people of Hungarian descent, their neighbors believed they had Gypsy ties.” Walking past me, he headed toward the shrouded altar and turned. “One night, in the summer of 1917, this church mysteriously caught fire.”

  “Arson?”

  Shoving his hands in his back pockets, he nodded. “Yeah, and about the same time, some of the families had their crops destroyed, their wells poisoned, and their livestock stolen.”

  “All because of their ethnic background?”

  Again he nodded. “When we bought this place, we found a diary in an old house we tore down. The woman who kept the diary wrote that everyone had vowed to rebuild.”

  “Did they?”

  “No, they never got the chance. The Spanish flu pandemic started in 1918, and whomever it didn’t kill, either moved away or was finally absorbed into the community.”

  “What people don’t understand, they destroy,” I murmured to myself.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I replied while making a 360 turn. “What are you going to do with this old building?”

  “Restore it. We’ve already started.” He pointed to the pile of trash. “The crew Krause recommended isn’t good about cleaning up, but they’re fast.”

  “You know Chuck Krause?” I asked, surprised to hear that name twice in the same day.

  “A little…His aide used to work for me,” he answered with a puzzled look. “And before Chuck entered politics, he was in the building trade, and still has a lot of connections. Why? Do you know Chuck, too?”

  I focused on the acorns at my feet. “No. I just heard someone else mention his name today.”

  “I imagine people all over the state will be talking about him before this campaign is over. He has big plans.”

  “So I heard.” My eyes traveled over the old plaster walls. “When will you be finished?”

  “Another four months,” he said with a big smile. “We’re planning on using it for Christmas celebrations, like choral events, weddings. That type of thing. It’s going to be very folksy and old-fashioned.”

  I could envision the old church draped with boughs of evergreen and holly. It would be lovely once again. And maybe the building being used for something positive would banish the old memory of what once happened there.

  “I’m sure it will be beautiful,” I said, grinning back at him.

  His smile suddenly faded. “I have a question for you—why are you here?”

  I jumped right in. “Do you know Stephen?”

  Surprise widened his eyes. “No, as I told Sheriff Wilson yesterday—I’d never met the man before in my life.”

  “Did he mention why he was here?”

  “No. We talked briefly about the wine industry in Iowa. He was very interested in the production angle—how many workers it took to run an operation like this, what kind of skilled labor I used, that type of thing. When he mentioned he was writing a book, I presumed it would be one of those ‘coffee table’ type books.” In the dim light, I saw his eyes narrow. “If you’re his friend, don’t you know all of this?”

  On the spot, I squirmed. “We’re not actually friends—I’d only met him myself yesterday, but after witnessing what happened, I’m…” My voice trailed away.

  “Curious?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I understand, but don’t you think questioning people is better left to Sheriff Wilson?”

  “Yes, but Stephen asked me to contact his assistant, and I’d like to be able to give her some answers.”

  That reply was kind of true.

  Ron crossed his arms and stared at me. “I thought Larsen was in a coma. When did he ask you for this favor?”

  “Um, well, right after the shooting, before the ambulance transported him to the helicopter.”

  I felt him shut down as he cast a hurried glance at his watch. “I need to get back to the main house. We’ve an event scheduled—a fund-raiser—for this evening.” He motioned toward the wide double doors. “Why don’t you let me walk you back to your car?”

  The conversation about Stephen was finished.

  Taking my arm, he began to lead me out of the church. We’d taken three steps when we heard a crack from above. Startled, we both looked up in time to see tile hurtling down from a hole in the ceiling. Ron yanked my arm and shoved me toward the entrance of the church.

  Behind me, the tile crashed to the floor and the air filled with dust as he hustled me out. Standing in the safety of the doorway, I looked over my shoulder to see broken chunks of old red tile lying right where I’d been standing.

  Ten

  Tight-lipped, and not very talkative, Ron escorted me back to my car. The only statements he made were, “Are you hurt?” and, “I’m blocking that area off to visitors.” The rest of the communication hinged on body language, and by the way he stiffly marched me down the path, I didn’t think I’d be welcome back to the winery anytime soon. After all, who wants a woman around who only seems to bring trouble?

  On the drive to Abby’s, I tried to reach Karen Burns again. My fingers trembled and I felt my right eyelid twitching as I dialed her number.

  Again—no answer. It was just as well. After the tile incident, I really wasn’t up to questioning some stranger.

  I pulled into the long driveway leading to Abby’s house and stopped.

  “If you’re going to run a bluff, Jensen, you’d better get control,” I muttered to myself.

  I just sat there for a minute looking toward the house.

  To my left sat Abby’s vegetable plots. In spite of the recent hot weather, all the plants flourished. Stems, holding red ripe tomatoes, bent low to the ground, while pumpkin, muskmelon, and squash vines snaked across the ground a few feet away. And the watermelon vines—I caught myself smiling in my rearview mirror.

  Abby’s watermelons were known throughout the county as being the best…and the most desirable to snitch in the middle of a hot summer’s night. Light green with dark green stripes, at maturity these melons weighed almost thirty pounds. A young thief not only had to be fast, but strong, to run with a couple of thirty pound melons tucked under his arms. Every year Abby always allowed a few melons to be taken, but when she’d had enough, little blue bags with sunflower seeds sown inside would appear hanging from the fence posts, a spell to ward off trespassers that she’d learned in the mountains. After that, no watermelons disappeared in the middle of the night.

  Abby’s large white farmhouse sat at the end of the lane. Her wide porch with its swing invoked childhood memories of nights catching lightning bugs and letting them go; drinking tall glasses of cold lemonade on a hot summer’s day; putting on my bathing suit and darting in and out of a sprinkler while Abby and Grandpa sat on the swing watching and laughing.

  I draw strength from this place, I thought, and felt that strength fill me.

  I drove the rest of the way to the house and parked. As I walked up to the wide steps leading to the porch, I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of Abby’s sprinkler and the call of a meadow lark. I’d turned to see if I could spot the bird when the front door flew open and Tink came tearing down the sidewalk with T.P., her puppy, scampering after her. She’d changed into navy cutoffs and a navy T-shirt after school, and wore her much-loved pink baseball cap. Her blond ponytail bounced as she ran.

  Lady followed at a more sedate pace.

  With violet eyes wide, Tink ran up to me and grabbed my arm. “It was sooo cool,” she exclaimed. “Abby let me witch for water.”

  T.P., picking up Tink’s excitement, ran circles around us, yipping and barking.

  “T.P., hush,” I said sternly.

  Lady sat calmly on the sidewalk and gave me a look that said, Good luck with that one.

  “Oh yeah,” she said with a glance toward the dogs, “Abby and I drove o
ver and picked them up.”

  Tugging me up the sidewalk, Tink skipped along. “She showed me how to make a dowsing rod out of willow.” She stopped to catch her breath. “And guess what, I found the old well out by the summer house. I didn’t even know it was there.”

  “That’s terrific, Tink.” Laughing, I let her lead me through the doorway and down the hall into the kitchen.

  The crystals on the windowsill caught the light of the dying sun and made rainbows across the oak floor as Abby stood in front of the old wood-burning stove mashing potatoes. She stopped for a moment and stirred the gravy simmering on the burner next to the pot of potatoes. On the counter to her left sat a big platter of fried chicken. A loaf of fresh baked bread, with a crock of sweet butter, had already been placed on the scarred wooden table.

  “Hey, something smells good.” I crossed to her and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.

  My stomach chose that time to give a low rumble.

  With a chuckle, Abby smiled and brushed a silver tendril out of her eyes. “Would you like to stay for supper?”

  The twinkle in her eye told me she already knew the answer.

  “Sure, better than the frozen pizza at home, huh, Tink?” I called while moving to the cupboards to get three plates and three glasses.

  Tink came up beside me and, pulling open a drawer, took out silverware.

  I shot a look over my shoulder at Abby. “Dowsing?”

  Giving Tink a fond glance, she picked up the platter of chicken and carried it to the table. “She can’t get in trouble with that skill,” she replied, placing the chicken next to the bread. “And it’s a good lesson in sensing the rhythms of the earth.”

  “And I did good, didn’t I, Abby?” Tink asked with pride.

  “Yes, my dear, you did.” She returned to the stove and took up the mashed potatoes and gravy while I laid out the plates and glasses.

  “That’s great, Tink,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder as she set the silverware on the table. “I was never any good at it.”

  “You lacked patience, Ophelia,” Abby said. Crossing to the table with the bowls, she stole a sideways glance at Tink. “Take off your hat, dear.”

  “I didn’t,” Tink said to me, referring to my lack of patience. “I walked really, really slow until I felt the willow branch tremble in my hands. It was awesome…” She paused and turned her fists down as if pulled by an invisible force. “I was dead on the spot,” she finished with a little swagger.

  Abby caught the swagger and arched an eyebrow. “Tink,” she gently chided, “what did I tell you about the power?”

  Tink’s cockiness fell away. “It isn’t mine—I’m only the instrument.”

  I hid my smirk. Jeez, how many times had I heard that statement growing up? It was one of Abby’s favorites.

  I pulled out a chair for Abby, then Tink and I took our seats at the table, too. “How did you like the journals?” I asked, placing my napkin on my lap.

  Tink’s fork stopped in midair. “Oh, wow! I read some really weird stuff. One said to mix pulverized rabbit droppings”—she let out a giggle—“with bran and feed it to your chickens. It makes them lay lots and lots of eggs.”

  “Works, too,” Abby said with a wink.

  “Yuck.” Tink shoved a forkful of food in her mouth. “If I had to do that, I’d rather not have so many eggs,” she mumbled with her mouth full.

  “Swallow, dear, before speaking,” Abby said gently, and filled Tink’s glass from the pitcher of ice water already on the table. “When I was a girl, the egg money bought food that we couldn’t grow. More eggs—more food.”

  “Hmm.” Tink cocked her head thoughtfully. “So I should be thankful we don’t have to do that, right?”

  Abby patted her hand and smiled. “Yes, you should.”

  For a few moments the only sound was the clink of our silverware on the stoneware plates as we dug into Abby’s excellent meal.

  “What happened today?” Abby asked, breaking the lull.

  I almost dropped my fork at her sudden question. Did she sense something, or was it normal curiosity? Had Darci talked to her?

  I laid my fork down and folded my hands in my lap in case they twitched. “Stephen’s in critical condition and the doctors are worried about pneumonia. I ran into Bill, but he’s as closed-mouth as ever about the investigation.”

  My concise report wasn’t everything that happened, but omission wasn’t lying, was it?

  Abby sipped her water. “Do you intend to carry through with your plan?”

  Tink perked up in her chair. “What plan?”

  I felt my mouth tense. “I had this crazy idea that I’d approach this as a psychic.”

  “Cool—can I help?”

  “No,” Abby and I replied simultaneously.

  Tink’s face fell. “Shoot. Why not?”

  “Tink, dear, you’re a medium, and although you’re coming along nicely in your training, the skill needed is clairvoyance.”

  “I can talk to the spirits,” she argued, settling back in her chair. “They might give me clues, and I bet Mr. Larsen has family that’s passed over. I could try and reach one of them.”

  Abby shook her head. “I know you want to help, but that’s not a good idea. Ophelia needs to handle it—she needs to prove to herself that she can do it.”

  Wise woman, my grandmother, which made me feel crappy for what I said next.

  “I’ve changed my mind, Abby.” I kept my head down.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw her push her plate back. “You seemed so determined this morning.”

  “I’ve had second thoughts,” I replied, looking straight at her, hoping my face didn’t give me away. “How often have you witnessed an event without there being some great cosmic plan to involve you?”

  Abby studied me carefully. “Many times. As I told you last night, there are situations beyond our control. We’ve all had to accept that. We do what we can—when we can.”

  “Abby,” I said with a bright smile, “that’s excellent advice.” Under the table, for the second time that day, I crossed my fingers as I told another lie.

  Eleven

  Tink was unusually quiet on the way home. It didn’t bode well for me—it meant she was thinking something up.

  “You don’t have much to say,” I commented, stealing a glance her way and turning the radio down. “What’s up?”

  She tugged her baseball cap lower on her forehead and slumped in the seat. “Nothing.”

  “Okay,” I replied cheerfully, and reached for the radio dial, intending to turn the volume louder.

  “All right, all right, I’ll tell you,” she said in a rush, as if I’d been using a rubber hose on her. “I don’t see why everyone else can use their gift and I can’t.”

  “’Cause you’re a kid,” I said, smiling, “and you’re still learning how to control your abilities.”

  “Ha—Aunt Dot,” she replied, referring to my great-aunt who’d recently paid us a very memorable visit, “said Great-Aunt Mary started contacting the spirits when she was only ten. I’m almost fourteen now.” She held up a hand and spread her fingers wide. “I’m three years older than she was.”

  “That may be, Tink, but I don’t know if I’d start quoting Aunt Dot if I were you.” I gave her another glance. “Remember, she claims she also talks to fairies.”

  Tink crossed her arms. “How do you know she doesn’t?”

  That was the problem when it came to Aunt Dot—I didn’t. When Dot first showed up for her visit, I’d scoffed at her ramblings about her fairies. But after everything that happened, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “Tink,” I said, switching tactics, “Aunt Mary and Aunt Dot live in the Appalachian mountains. Things are different there.”

  She squirmed in her seat, turning toward the window. “Humph.”

  I searched for some of the stock answers Abby had given me when I was a kid and being a psychic was something exciting. “You need to respect your abili
ty,” I lectured. “Being a medium isn’t some parlor game, or a toy that’s been given to you for your amusement.”

  “Like I don’t know that?” she shot back with a tinge of sarcasm.

  Thinking of the ghost she’d conjured—one we’d a heck of a time banishing—I nodded. “I guess maybe you do.”

  “I wouldn’t try anything without supervision,” she pressed, sensing a change in my attitude.

  “Abby and I aren’t mediums. Part of your training has been guesswork.”

  “Can’t you call Great-Aunt Mary and ask her advice?”

  “No.”

  She shoved back in the seat with a pout. “When we go to Appalachia this fall for her hundredth birthday, I’m asking her hundreds of questions.”

  I laughed. “Sure you will. You don’t know Great-Aunt Mary. She’s not the friendly, little pixie Aunt Dot is.” My voice grew heated. “That woman can sour milk with just one look.”

  “You’re teasing,” she scoffed.

  “Well,” I replied as I whipped into our driveway, “I haven’t actually seen her do it, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Tink didn’t understand. Great-Aunt Mary scared the pants off me, and the less contact I had with her, the better. I was not looking forward to our upcoming trip.

  Once inside the house, Queenie greeted us by ignoring us. I imagined she was out of joint over the fact that she’d been left behind when Abby and Tink picked up the dogs. Curled up on the bottom step of the stairs, she groomed herself with her pink tongue, making long, leisurely strokes over her black fur. She paused and looked up with narrowed eyes to let me know that she was aware of our presence but could care less.

  Scooping her up, I chucked her under her chin. “Poor baby—how about a treat?”

  I walked into the kitchen, with Lady and T.P. following. After all, if Queenie received a treat, so should they. After handing out the goodies, I went upstairs and showered, changing into shorts and a T-shirt.